


I could, once

by LoneswaggingRanger



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, More comfort than hurt, One Shot, Still might feel sad though, This entire thing is just that, Tony doesn't like being handed things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25177300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoneswaggingRanger/pseuds/LoneswaggingRanger
Summary: Tony doesn't like being handed things. Peter understands, to an extent.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 51
Kudos: 151





	I could, once

**Author's Note:**

> Hi? A little something my brain thought of before going to sleep. Enjoy!

(I don’t like being handed things.)

*

The first time it happened, Peter thought it was a ploy to puncture his already broken heart. 

Peter thought he felt all the pain, anger and guilt he could when he heard the words: _If you’re nothing without the suit, then you shouldn’t have it._

Because yeah, he really was nothing without the suit. But then, Mr. Stark had to go on and douse a bucketful of salt on his gaping wounds by snapping, “I don’t like being handed things.”

And wow, wasn’t that a statement. Peter, with his trembling hands, placed the suit in the billionaire’s car, turning away without a word because like _hell_ was he going to cry in front of the man that slammed the door right in his face.

That night, he walked all the way from Staten Island to Queens, the same sentence ringing in the back of his mind.

_I can’t even hand him things._

*

The second time it happened, Peter hadn’t been paying attention. He was too busy fawning over the idea of having a _real_ internship at Stark Industries, because all be damned, that was going to look _so_ good on his curriculum vitae in the future.

Which was why, when Mr. Stark hollered, “Get me some of that coffee on the table, will you?” Peter bounded to the kitchen with supersonic speed and not much thought, determined not to mess up on his first day of work.

God knows he’s messed up enough.

When Mr. Stark quietly said, “Don’t like being handed things, kid. Worktable’s fine,” it wasn’t with the terseness Peter had associated those words with. It was soft admission eluded by flippant pride, coated at the sides with secret shame.

Peter grinned like it was no big deal, replying with a casual, “Sure thing, boss,” before returning to his own work table at the other end of the workshop.

Really, this was the first time his brain went, _Oh,_ he _doesn’t like being handed things. Oh._

_*_

The third time it happened, Peter was pretty sure May Parker wasn't going to let Tony Stark set foot into her home ever again.

It started off as a quiet dinner, what with May trying to get over the fact that her nephew was Spiderman and Mr. Stark trying to appease whatever guilt that seemed to harbour in his gut. (Which was ridiculous, because Peter had proven that he would have done this with or without him anyway.)

The only being who seemed remotely at ease with the situation was Ms Potts, her deft fingers picking at the sort of meat May had served them, idly chatting about baking and cooking and whatever it was women May and Pepper’s age talked about.

Perhaps it was this strange-but-not-too-bad atmosphere that made him notice the way Mr. Stark’s eyes flitted over to the salt shaker. (Because everyone knew May could never estimate seasoning amounts right. How Pepper had swallowed everything down so fast without so much as a gag was indeed a profound mystery.)

The next thing Peter knew, the salt shaker was flying diagonally from his end of the table to where Mr. Stark was seated. He had expected Mr. Stark’s superhero reflexes to kick in and catch it just before hitting the ground, like the cool badass he thought him to be. He _hadn’t_ expected Mr. Stark to underestimate his arguably miscalculated throw and instead flick the poor shaker all the way beside the sink with a piercing crash.

Expectations never did match up with reality anyway.

May had gone hysterical, and so had Mr. Stark; one with exasperation, the other with full-blown laughter as Peter was forced to sweep up his shattered doings.

*

The next few times, it became more of a game than anything. Peter would get around trying to give things to Mr. Stark without actively handing it to him. Sometimes it was coffee left brewing in the penthouse, sometimes it was a screw thrown from one corner of the workshop to the other (Mr. Stark caught it this time), sometimes it was birthday post-it notes stuck all over the compound (including the toilets).

Once, it had been self-made Father’s Day chocolate pudding that Peter left on Mr. Stark’s bedside table. (Friday helped him sneak into the bedroom) He was pretty sure he heard Mr. Stark sniffle behind him as he crept out, though Friday had countlessly claimed him to be asleep.

Never once had Peter thought of the statement _I don’t like being handed things_ as a sign of vulnerability or a display of arrogance, it was just somehow part of Mr. Stark. And Peter could roll with being part of.

Mr. Stark put his foot down when Peter decapitated an Iron Man figurine, though.

“Is this a thing?” he’d asked, a mirthful twinkle in his eyes.

“No, that is _not_ a thing! What the hell-” Mr. Stark gestured wildly with one hand, the other tapping his chest with an affronted huff. “Why would you _do_ that?”

Peter had grinned, tugged at Mr. Stark’s arm and placed the sorry remains in his palms, all with an unbelievably triumphant look on his face. “Not. A. Thing.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, kid.”

*

This time, it happened the same way Mr. Stark became _Tony_ and kid became _Pete_.

He hadn’t been paying much attention, too distracted with extracting the literal bug caught in his webshooters. Blocked up all his shooting points. Messed up the coordinators. Damn bugs.

So when Tony mumbled somewhere from his right, “Pass me that hammer, Pete,” Peter simply lifted said tool and handed it over to him.

And Tony took it.

It took Peter 5 hours, two car rides (he forgot his bag) and one sleepless night later to finally register, _Oh,_ he _doesn’t like being handed things. Oh._

*

Peter still continued the game after that. He still tossed things over the dinner table (much to Pepper and eventually May’s chagrin), still slipped cake into the workshop when he thought Tony wasn’t looking. He still did all this, because honestly, why should he stop? Why deprive Tony of the one unspoken tradition between them that sprinkled joy on his features each time he received Peter’s trinkets?

There weren’t that many hammers to pass anyway.

*

“Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Pass me the screwdriver over there.” A haphazard point.

He blinked. _Well, let it never be said that Peter Parker couldn’t learn from his mistakes._

“Sure thing, Tony,” He said, as webs flew across the table and flung the tool to the engineer sitting mere inches away from him.

The joy was replaced with something oddly similar to hurt. Peter couldn’t fathom why.

*

“Hypothetically,” Tony set down the wrench, fingers caressing his chin in an outward show of Tony-in-deep-thought. “If you were to receive a Stark Internship certificate, would Flash the dash drop his balls and piss his pants?”

Peter stared at him. Then grinned. “Totally.” Because he could be an ass when he wanted to.

Which was how Peter found himself in a photo shoot two weeks later, with peace signs, overestimated heights and a certain smug face preening at the camera. He held the certificate in his arms like it was his first newborn, cradling it with that much care because he’d been here for almost a year. He’d been with _Tony_ for almost a year.

Ned was _so_ going to flip.

“Alright, Pete, skedaddle now,” Tony waved. “Follow good Miss Potts and get yourself some photographic prints. Meet me in the lab.” He ambled off with not so much as a smirk, leaving Peter to waddle after Pepper like a little lost duckling.

“Who even says _photographic prints_?” Peter muttered under his breath, though it must not have been that quiet, judging by how Pepper snorted in response.

Once the priceless pictures were churned out, Peter was tasked with the ultimatum of passing three photos to Tony down in the lab. Now, Peter could play the game, could easily sticky tape them on the workshop door and let Tony find it for himself.

But the way Pepper said, “Pass this to Tony for me, won’t you, love?” made Peter stop short.

So it was with this thought that he shuffled into the workshop and plonked down beside the man working out equations on a tablet. He let out this awkward cough to signal his presence, but no luck, Tony was still as engrossed as ever.

“Uh, Tony?”

The man’s head whipped up, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

“Um.. Pepper asked me to give you your _photographic prints_. Said you’re going to hang them up on your wall of fame or something,” Peter held up one hand, eyes half-burning with a flame he didn’t know existed. A challenge.

And Tony took it. “Sure will, Pete.”

It was then that Peter burst into tears, giggling so uncontrollably that Tony wrapped his arms around him with a little too much concern, because like _hell_ was he not going to make this a big deal.

_I can hand him things now._

Pepper and May were blissfully set free from dining utensils flying over their heads.

*

There was only one thought that pierced through Peter’s mind when Tony’s body slumped and left with only death in his eyes _._

It was selfish and pathetic, but it was one of those really important things that cemented their relationship and Peter’ll be damned if he doesn’t mourn it at least once.

He mourned it more than once, to be honest. When he was at the funeral, when Morgan gave Peter all her toys because he was crying so badly, when Pepper smiled at him with that much sorrow but still told him she was glad he’s back, when Happy put an arm around his shoulder but still didn’t feel like Tony.

_I can’t hand him things anymore._

*

(I could, once.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading~ uwu


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